


We Three

by inexplicifics



Series: Sugar and Spice Bingo [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29689173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Due to a turnip festival (and who ever heard of a turnip festival?) there is only one bed at the inn.Geralt, Jaskier, and Eskel make it work...and maybe learn something while they're at it.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Sugar and Spice Bingo [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096091
Comments: 44
Kudos: 554
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	We Three

Jaskier stares at the bed. The bed, unfortunately, continues to be a bed - one, single, solitary bed. It’s a decent size, for an inn bed, but still. There’s only one of it.

There’s a heavy footstep behind him, and Jaskier steps to the side to let his companions in. Geralt is, as usual, scowling blackly; Eskel, who in Jaskier’s as-yet-limited experience is usually rather more cheerful, looks nearly as unhappy. “There really _aren’t_ any other rooms,” he says, dropping his saddlebags in a corner as Jaskier shuts the door. “Apparently we’re lucky to get this one - the festival has filled every other room in town.”

“Who ever heard of a _turnip_ festival?” Jaskier mutters. Really, a turnip festival? One big enough to fill every single inn room in this whole damn _town_?

“One bed,” Geralt observes quietly, without looking up from the buckles of his armor. He and Eskel are both exhausted, Jaskier knows. Their contract today, one large enough to _require_ two witchers, was one for an entire nest of wyverns, and though neither of them are badly injured, they both look ready to fall over where they stand.

“You two take it,” Jaskier says, even though he’s nearly as tired as they are. No, he didn’t fight any wyverns, but they’ve been traveling for a week, and he spent the entire day playing for the turnip festival’s patrons - making quite a lot of money, actually, but still, twelve hours on his feet playing his lute is a long damn time. Still, he can roll up in his cloak on the floor; if he stacks all three of their bedrolls up, it’ll make a decent little pallet.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Eskel says. “I don’t mind.”

“You got knocked silly by a fucking wyvern,” Geralt grumbles. “I’ll take the floor.”

There’s a brief pause while they all look at each other. Jaskier grimaces. “So, the way I see it, we have three choices.”

“Hm?” Geralt hums, bending to unlace his boots.

“Either you two can be sensible witchers and take the damn bed -” both of them frown at him - “or we can spend the whole damn night arguing about it and _nobody_ will end up happy, or we can resign ourselves to being a bit squished and see if we can all fit.”

Geralt and Eskel look at each other, clearly having a whole conversation without any words at all, and then Geralt lifts one shoulder a tiny fraction, and Eskel ducks his chin the same hairsbreadth.

“Fine,” Geralt says, and finishes stripping his armor off, then grimaces at the state of his tunic and trousers - begrimed with mud and wyvern ichor - and takes those off, too, leaving him in nothing but his braies. Jaskier has seen him in less, many times, but it never fails to take his breath away. Geralt is a stunningly lovely man.

Eskel, Jaskier sees when he finally tears his gaze away from Geralt, has stripped to his braies as well, and Jaskier has never seen _him_ bare before. He’s just as distressingly lovely as Geralt is: a little broader in the shoulder, darker than Geralt’s moon-white skin, but just as strong and scarred and handsome.

Oh dear. Jaskier really didn’t think this through. Normally if he’s sleeping in the same bed - or bedroll - with Geralt, he can just roll over and let Geralt be the big spoon, and avoid calling any attention to the natural consequences of his being in the same bed as one of the most attractive men in the world, with whom Jaskier has been in love for longer than he cares to recall. But with _two_ absurdly attractive witchers, one of whom he’s in love with and the other of whom he is pretty damn close to _falling_ in love with, damn his soft heart anyway -

Maybe they’ll give him the space nearest the wall?

“It’ll be cold tonight,” Geralt says gruffly.

Eskel nods. “You’d better take the middle, Jaskier. Are you going to wear your boots to bed?”

Jaskier tries very hard not to blush as he takes off boots and doublet and trousers. He’s in reasonably good shape for a mere mortal, and Geralt at least has seen him in every state of undress possible over the years, but - well.

Neither Geralt nor Eskel seems to notice his discomfort, which is something anyhow. Eskel takes the side of the bed nearest the wall, and Jaskier lies down next to him and tries to decide what the least awkward sleeping position is going to be.

Eskel murmurs, “Come here, then,” and loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer, until Jaskier is tucked up against him, Eskel’s warm chest pressed to his back. Geralt hums and blows out the candle and settles in front of Jaskier, apparently perfectly happy to be the littlest spoon. Jaskier hesitates for a long moment and then drapes his arm over Geralt’s waist.

It’s very warm, sandwiched between two witchers, and Jaskier is _very_ tired. He’s asleep in moments.

He wakes up still sandwiched between the witchers, but Geralt has turned around sometime during the night, so his knees bump against Jaskier’s, and is having a very quiet conversation with Eskel over Jaskier’s head. Jaskier stays still, breathing quietly, in a sort of half-dreaming haze; he _can_ get up and start moving immediately in the mornings if he must, but he far prefers lying in bed as long as he can get away with it.

“...ever going to tell him?” Eskel murmurs, almost too quietly for Jaskier to hear. His hand is resting on Jaskier’s stomach, hot as a brand even through Jaskier’s undershirt, and his thumb is moving in tiny little strokes that make Jaskier shiver and want to melt against him.

“No,” Geralt replies, just as softly. “He deserves better.”

“Mmph,” Eskel says. “He loves you.” There’s an odd wistfulness in his tone, which puzzles Jaskier for several moments until he realizes that he _recognizes_ it.

Huh. He’s not the only person in this bed pining for Geralt of Rivia’s self-sacrificing, too-chivalric ass.

“He deserves better,” Geralt says again. “He - he likes you. You should -” Eskel cuts him off with a sigh, breath hot against the back of Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier considers a great many options, from staying quiet and letting this moment pass, to screaming in frustration, but he settles at last on opening his eyes and saying, to Geralt’s startled face, “Don’t you think you ought to let _us_ decide that, instead of doing it for us?”

Geralt gapes at him. Eskel chuckles. “Listen to your bard,” he says, and starts to pull his arm away like he’s going to leave. Jaskier laces his fingers through Eskel’s and tugs Eskel’s hand up to rest on his chest, snuggling back against the witcher until Eskel is pinned between Jaskier and the wall. Eskel could get up easily, of course - mere human strength is nowhere near enough to stop a determined witcher - but he stills like he’s been truly caught all the same.

“Nope, I’m done letting Geralt be a self-sacrificing idiot, and I’m not letting you start either,” Jaskier scolds, craning his head back until he can see Eskel’s stunned expression and fumbling with his feet until he’s trapped Geralt’s legs in an awkward sort of tangle. “Now. Have _either_ of you got a reason for denying yourselves happiness that doesn’t boil down to ‘I’m a witcher and somehow that means I don’t deserve it’?” He can’t believe he’s saying this. He can’t believe they’re _letting_ him say it, and haven’t both fled the room by now.

“I guess not,” Eskel says after a long moment. Geralt is glowering worse than ever, but he hasn’t come up with any sort of retort, not even a hum or a snort, and he hasn’t rolled off the bed and left yet, either.

“Right,” Jaskier says, and firmly forbids his nerves to show in his voice. “Well then. If I’ve interpreted all of this mess correctly, Geralt, you think I should be kissing Eskel - which, for the record, I would enjoy a great deal - and Eskel, you think I should be kissing _Geralt_ , which, again, I would quite enjoy, and I think the two of you have probably been pining at each other longer than I’ve been alive and ought to kiss each other already. So. We can either argue about that for the rest of the morning,” he takes a deep breath, wondering why neither of them has interrupted him yet - Eskel’s arm is tight around his waist, and Geralt is still as stone, his eyes as wide as saucers - “or we can just skip all the angst and hurt feelings, and spend the morning kissing instead.”

“What a sensible bard you’ve found, Geralt,” Eskel murmurs.

“He really isn’t,” Geralt replies. “Except on very rare occasions.”

“Then this must be a spectacularly special occasion,” Eskel says. “Geralt. Kiss your -” he pauses, and chuckles softly. “Kiss _our_ bard.”

Geralt licks his lips; Jaskier can’t help staring a little hungrily. “Jaskier,” Geralt rasps. “Are you - are you sure?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes as theatrically as he can. “How you have managed to pick up almost immediately on the fact that I find Eskel incredibly attractive and yet somehow _missed_ the fact that I have been pining over _you_ for the better part of a decade, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“He’s very good at not noticing things like that,” Eskel observes, and presses his lips to the back of Jaskier’s neck. “Though I suppose I oughtn’t throw stones from my glass house - I’ve no idea what you see in _me_.”

“You are absurdly attractive, ridiculously well-read, and a complete sweetheart,” Jaskier retorts. “And you have the most delightfully filthy sense of humor I’ve ever encountered.” The joke Eskel told the night they all met up, involving a succubus, three priests, and an extremely confused donkey, was so astonishingly dirty that Jaskier’s fairly sure he couldn’t tell it anywhere in the boundaries of Aedirn without being drummed out of the country for public indecency. Jaskier hasn’t laughed that hard in _months_. “Geralt, are you going to kiss me or do I have to keep complimenting Eskel until he spontaneously combusts out of embarrassment?”

“Save me,” Eskel begs, caught somewhere between laughter and pleading. “Kiss him already!”

Geralt smiles, an astonishingly sweet expression, and puts a very careful hand on the side of Jaskier’s face, and leans in.

Jaskier’s dreamed of this moment, now and again. He’s made up whole elaborate storylines - he _is_ a bard, after all - with daring rescues and elaborate verbiage and all sorts of frills and furbelows. But when it comes right down to it, it is very simple:

Geralt kisses him.

It’s sweet and slow and soft, and Jaskier melts into it like ice in midsummer, sagging back against Eskel with a muffled little moan.

“Now that’s pretty,” Eskel murmurs. “Does he taste as sweet as he sings, Wolf?”

Geralt pulls back a little, licking his lips again, and hums. “Try it and see,” he says, and Jaskier squirms around as well as he can until he’s flat on his back with two witchers leaning over him, looking down at him hungrily. Eskel hesitates just for a moment, and Jaskier reaches up and hauls him down.

Eskel kisses like he knows exactly what makes Jaskier tick, and it’s intoxicating. Jaskier tries his best to give back as thorough a kiss as he’s getting, though he’s not sure he succeeds. Eskel’s stories of successfully sating a succubus sound a _lot_ more plausible now.

And Jaskier would normally protest at the ending of a kiss like that, but not when Eskel turns from kissing him and laces a hand through Geralt’s moon-white hair and draws _him_ into a kiss - one that’s all teeth and tongues and decades of longing turned at last to passion, and, importantly, is _right there where Jaskier can watch_. It may actually be the most arousing thing he’s ever seen in his life.

There’s a long pause when Geralt and Eskel finally part, all of them eyeing each other in mild shock at this having actually _happened_ , and then Geralt puts his head down on Jaskier’s shoulder with a contented little sigh that makes Jaskier’s heart ache with the sheer _happiness_ of the sound, and Eskel smiles and curls a little closer to Jaskier and begins to pet Geralt’s hair, and Jaskier decides that for right now, lying here in a heap of warm witchers, lips still tingling from two glorious kisses, as Geralt makes happy rumbling noises and Eskel murmurs quiet praise, is the absolutely perfect place to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sugar & Spice Bingo prompt "Snuggling," and beta'd by the ever-magnificent RoS13!


End file.
